


The Christmas Cold

by Deanie95



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas, Colds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deanie95/pseuds/Deanie95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur could be back in Britain with some tea and a good book, but now he's stuck going to one of Alfred's Christmas Parties. Except...where is everyone else? And why isn't Alfred answering his own door? human names used;pretty fluffy;and I own only the writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Cold

"Stupid American git…" Arthur Kirkland, otherwise known as England, muttered as he shuffled from foot to foot on the snow-covered front porch of Alfred F. Jones, said 'American git', also known as America.

Arthur could be back home, across the sea, in his comfy apartment, but this year, he'd somehow gotten pulled into attending one of Alfred's lavish and extravagant holiday parties. He could have been curled on his couch with a piping mug of the finest Earl Grey, watching his wonderful British people do their holiday shopping and other preparations, but no, he had to be stuck in America going to what was probably going to be one of the most obnoxious parties he'd been forced to attend yet. One would think that after practically raising the rambunctious lad, he'd be immune his pleading, but…

#~*~*~*~*~*~#

"Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!"

The British man looked down at the young boy, who appeared to be the age of six, "Yes, Alfred?"

"Can I have some ice cream?! Pretty please! Please, please, please!" the blue-eyed child asked excitedly.

"I don't know, lad. You seem pretty hyper already." the older, green-eyed nation said calmly, "I don't think more sugar will help you much…"

"Awwwww!"

Arthur turned his gaze towards the cook book he was referencing. Alfred really needed to gain more weight. He was too light for his age. Arthur knew he was still growing and it was all the time he spent running around outdoors that kept him so trim, but there was no excuse to be so…scrawny during the freezing British winter. The Englishman suddenly felt a tug on his britches and looked down to see the young boy with his head tilted down.

"Come now, lad, you know it's too late in the evening for sugar." Arthur said as he patted the boy on the head with his free hand, "You'll live until tomorrow."

"Please, England." Alfred said softly, unlike his usual, loud self, "I promise to only have a little. And that I'll clean up my dishes too."

Arthur's next downward glance was his downfall. His own green eyes locked with bright, blue pleading eyes and a look that resembled a small dog. Arthur sighed and stepped towards the ice box.

"Alright…Only a single scoop though…and what do you say?"

"Thank you!"

#~*~*~*~*~*~#

Arthur sighed in defeat. He hadn't been able to say no to the boy since he'd found him. Even when the boy had grown into a teenager, he'd been unable to say no to him. At least, not until the boy had rebelled and started pulling away from him. After that, he'd cut all ties. Then the World Wars had come along and he'd been forced to somewhat reconcile with him.

Arthur coughed to clear his throat and knocked on the large wooden door again, "C'mon now, Alfred. I'm freezing my arse off out here."

Growing impatient, which really said something about the usually calm Brit, he grabbed the spare key Alfred kept under a flower pot and let himself into the house. To his surprise the house was dead quiet and actually seemed quite scary without the loud noise that usually could be heard from the outside. Steeling his resolve, the Brit stepped further into the American home, took off his snow and mud covered Oxfords off, and closed the door behind him.

Arthur was nervous, which was strange. This was certainly not the first time he'd been over to Alfred's home and he seriously doubted it would be the last. The young nation was always throwing parties and having people over.

Padding through the house on sock covered feet, the British man walked all around the ground floor of the home, but still did not find any sign of the young, American man or any of their fellow personified nations. Strange, very strange indeed.

"Alfred?" Arthur called out to the empty home, "Where are you, you bloody wanker?"

It was then that he heard coughing coming from upstairs. Nodding determinedly, he made his way up the stairs only to find the American leaning weakly again against the wall.

"You…" Alfred paused to cough into elbow, "ugh…called for me?"

Arthur took in the pale face and trembling body of his former charge, "Bloody hell, Alfred, what were you thinking?! Throwing a party in this condition! You're liable to make yourself even worse, boy!"

"I…achoo!…wasn't…" Alfred croaked, rubbing his sore throat, "Canceled it…I was feeling really rotten, ugh, so I called everyone and told them the party was off…Why're you here?"

Arthur blushed in embarrassment, "I've…er…had my phone turned off all day…Francis got a hold of my new number so…"

"Oh…well…now you know, I guess…" Alfred coughed hoarsely, "Just locked the door…behind you when you leave…"

Arthur sniffed derisively, "I'm not about to leave with you in such a dreadful health. C'mon now, lad. Lean on me. Let's get you to bed."

Arthur rushed over and slid an arm around the American man's waist. Together, Arthur managed to half carry Alfred to his room and gently lay him on the bed. The bespectacled nation panted, sweat dripping from his skin. Arthur, knowing that wearing the germ coated clothing would only hinder the young man's chances of getting better, stripped him down to his boxers.

After telling the sick man he'd be back in a second, the Englishman rushed into the adjoining bathroom to get the rubbing alcohol and two rags, one dry, the other wet. He hurried back to Alfred, who had managed to take his glasses of and proceeded to rub the young man down with the alcohol, killing the germs and attempting to cool the obvious fever.

"Ar…Arthur?" Alfred asked softly, shuddering at the drop in body temperature as the British man tucked the comforter tightly around the man and wiped at his face with the wet cloth.

"Yes, my boy?" Arthur asked he carded his fingers through the dirty blond hair of his former ward, "What is it, love?"

"Why're you…achoo!…doing this?" he asked with glazed, tired blue eyes.

Arthur scowled at Alfred, "I'm not about to leave you when you're feeling ill, you git. I'm a gentleman and gentlemen don't leave someone when they're in poor health."

"O-oh…"

"That's not the only reason." Arthur said with a gentle smile, noticing the slight sound of hurt in the American's voice, "Despite someone of the rough times we've been through and despite rebelling and leaving me, I still care a great deal for you. You were and still are the most important person in my life, Alfred."

Alfred gave a small smile, "Thanks, Artie…"

"You're welcome, lad. Think nothing of it. Just get better." Arthur said softly as Alfred's eyes started to droop.

It wasn't long before the young American was asleep and Arthur was left alone with his thoughts. He'd meant what he said, about still caring for Alfred. After everything they'd been through, the bloody and stupidly violent wars, their ridiculous opinions of one another, and all their little spats over the years, Arthur couldn't help, but see the boy Alfred once was. He couldn't help that every time he saw those bright blue eyes, he thought of the rambunctious and easily excitable lad he'd once nurtured and cared for.

"What a bright, exciting young lad you were…" the Englishman said as he brushed at the hair stuck to Alfred's forehead, "And what a dashing, wondrous young man you've become today."

Arthur stood from his light perch on the bed, but leaned down to gently kiss the feverish forehead. He left the room, shutting the door gently behind him. All his boy needed now was a little rest. The obnoxious and loud nation would be better tomorrow. Just in time to open his gifts. At least the Englishman hoped Alfred felt better by morning.

It'd be a right shame if the lad couldn't enjoy the remote controlled airplane Arthur had gotten him.


End file.
